


Stanuary 2018 Prompts

by KainichivonDiamond



Series: Gravity Falls Monthly Challenges [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Stanuary, Stanuary 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-02-26 03:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13227144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KainichivonDiamond/pseuds/KainichivonDiamond
Summary: Four drabbles for Stanuary 2018, showing various points in his life, from being a little kid with his mom to an old man on a boat





	1. Con

The floor is uncomfortable as he waits, dragging a crayon over a large sheet of notebook paper that he borrowed from Ford. He wants to climb up on the seat with his mother but she’s got her legs stretched out across it while she talks on the phone. They’re not allowed to bother her when she’s on the phone, that’s a rule, same as how they weren’t allowed in the shop while Dad is working. Stan knows this and it’s one of the rules he always obeys. His butt still hurts whenever he thinks about the last time Ford and he ran through the shop while he was working.

Besides, he wants to ask their ma a question and doesn’t want her mad before he does. Dad always got mad when he asked too many questions; Ford got books when he asked too many questions, Stan got a spanking. That was okay though, Stan didn’t have a lot of questions. Most of the questions he had Ford knew or had a book about, because he was the smart one. Stan had _personality_ , their ma said so. He could tell stories real good too. Ford got mad when he did that, sometimes, like when he made up the story about the monster that lived in their closet. Ford had stayed up all night trying to catch it to ask it questions.

Stan giggles as he thinks about it and feels a hand on his head. He grins up at his ma; she scratches her long, pretty red nails against his scalp. She gives him a wink and moves the phone so it’s cradled between her ear and shoulder. She leans back, patting her lap, which Stan immediately jumps up to climb into. He settles in her lap and lets her muss with his hair, though she keeps pushing his glasses down his nose while he keeps drawing.

“No, no, darling. It’s right here in the cards. He’ll be tall with…” her fingers pinch his cheek and he leans away, covering his mouth as he laughs, “freckly cheeks. Mmhm. Look for the man with freckles in a,” she snatches the crayon out of his hand and looks it over, “red shirt. Yup. That will be your one true love. Alright. May the stars shine upon you.”

As soon as she hangs up the phone, Stan’s hugged way too tight and his ma is blowing raspberries against his cheek and knocking his glasses off. He laughs while trying to push her off. “Ma! Stop it!”

She lets him go with a sloppy kiss to his cheek that he has to scrub off. “What are you doing, you little troublemaker? Where’s your other half?” she leans back against the window behind her. Then she takes his paper from him, turning it this way and that while she looks it over. “Is this another monster for you and Ford to chase after?”

Stan readjusts himself in her lap and takes the picture and crayon back. “Shermie said he’d take ‘im to the library. Books are _boring_ so I didn’t wanna go.” Stan liked his big brother; he gave them pennies to save up for sodas and would take them to the beach to play when their ma was busy. Ford was his favorite cause he was his best friend but Shermie was nice. He sticks his tongue out while he adds a few more lines to his drawing. “’sides, I wanna ask you bout somethin’ someone said at school.”

His ma moves him a bit so he can lean back against her front; her chin digs in a bit to the top of his head but it’s not too bad, especially when she hugs him. “Oh? Finally found something not even Ford knows?” she gave his side a squeeze and he wiggles a bit at the way it tickles. “Well, ask away, Sweetheart.”

“What’s a con?” that’s what Crampelter said their family was full of. Cons and scammers. He’d heard some of the people that bought stuff from their dad say that too when they tried to return stuff. _No refunds, read the sign_. That’s what Dad said to those people. Stan was pretty sure it was a bad thing, because people said it with words Stan wasn’t allowed to say or else he’d get the belt.

His ma gets all stiff behind him and she squeezes him too tight again. “Where’d you hear that?”

He looks back at her, pushing his glasses back up his nose so he can see her better. She’s got a sad look on her face so he grins at her. “Someone at school said it. Is it bad?”

His ma sticks out her bottom lip a bit, like she does when she’s trying to read the stars on the phone. Ford does it too when he’s trying to solve the mysteries in the Almanac Blue books. Stan always just read the answers in the back of the book. “Well…” she reaches for his drawing again, setting it flat on his lap. “You know how you like to make up stories?”

Stan nods and hurriedly adds angry eyebrows to the new monster he was making up. He was gonna tell Ford that it lived in the creepy vase in their dad’s shop and it at their ma’s nail polish; that’s why it was so red and why she kept running out. “Yeah! Are cons stories?”

“Well…” she tapped the drawing, “kinda. Your stories aren’t true, right? That’s why Daddy spanks you for lying sometimes. Well, cons are stories that aren’t true.” She smiles and nuzzles his hair. “But you don’t wanna hurt anyone with your stories, right, baby?”

He shakes his head. “Nuh-uh!” he just likes pulling pranks on Ford, and Ford has fun with it too. Usually they go monster hunting together and build Fort Stan out of blankets and boxes. And sometimes they find real stuff like footprints in the sand that look like monster prints. It’s really fun. “They’re just for fun.”

His mom smiles wide, bright white teeth with pretty red lips that leave marks on cheeks and foreheads when she kisses first thing in the morning. “That’s right, sweetheart! And that’s what Daddy and me do; we tell stories for fun. But when someone doesn’t like the story, they get mad and call it a con. But it’s just stories. Does that make sense?”

He twists up his mouth while he thinks about it. His ma does tell really good bedtime stories. So that’s what his ma does on the phone, tell stories? That makes sense, he supposes. Grownups can’t spank other grownups, so they call each other cons and other words Stan’s not allowed to say. He nods. “Okay. That makes sense.”

He feels his ma’s chin on top of his head again. “Good boy. Now, why don’t you tell Mama your new story?”


	2. Trouble

“Dad’s going to be mad.” Ford says with a long-suffering sigh.

Stan has to squint as his brother leans in and winces at the pressure of the wet towel to his tender nose. He swats Ford’s hands away from his face, taking the towel himself when he feels the thick wetness slipping down over his upper lip. “Dad’s always mad at me.” He responds and hates how his voice sounds thick and nasally as he pinches his nose close in an attempt to staunch the blood flow. He tries to lean away when Ford reaches for his face again, “Would you stop that?”

“Just hold still, you knucklehead!” Ford hisses and gives him a rather weak punch to the arm. “I want to make sure nothing’s broken this time!” he glares until Stan reluctantly lets him resume his poking and prodding.

They already wrapped Stan’s knuckles with the last of the tape from their boxing duffle bag and his ribs were already starting to change colors. Stan thought it was funny that you could make out the outline of Crampelter’s boot on his stomach; Ford didn’t. The worst damage, though, was to Stan’s face. Ford had to be convinced to not get ice for the shiner Stan was already sporting, mostly because Stan didn’t want to let anyone else see him like this just yet. His bottom lip was shredded on the inside from where a punch had scraped the skin against his braces; Stan had a much better understanding why his coach stressed that he wear his mouth guard now. Then there’s his nose which _still_ hasn’t stopped bleeding yet. And of course, there was the pair of glasses with their cracked lenses that were weighing heavy in his pocket.

Stan flashes a grin when Ford _finally_ steps back and moves to sit on the swing next to him. “So, what’s the news, Dr. Poindexter? Am I gonna live?” the look he gets from his brother makes all the pain super worth it.

Ford rolls his eyes, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Yes, but whether that’s fortunate or not has yet to be determined. You seem to be suffering from a terrible case of being an ass. Only time will tell if the damage is permanent.” He frowns and stares at the sand beneath his sneakers. “…we can trade glasses again. Tell him it was my glasses that got broke?”

Stan shakes his head, not really looking at his brother but instead all the blood covering the towel. The bleeding finally seems to be slowing. “He won’t believe that again. ‘specially with the way I’m looking right now.”

Ford’s got that look that says he’s building up steam, “But it’s not your fault! Crampelter’s the one that started it and his beef was with _me—_ ”

“Relax, Sixer. It’s fine.” It’s not that Stan doesn’t appreciate what his brother is doing, but there’s no point. Stan’s known since their dad’s ultimatum, that if he broke one more pair of glasses he wouldn’t get any more, that it was only a matter of time. He got a bonus pair thanks to the fact that Ford and him could trade and the last fight had gotten both of them roughed up but that goodwill was all used up. “Besides, ain’t like I really need them all that bad.”

Ford gives him the most unamused look ever and it actually kinda sends a chill down his spine. “Stan, you’re eyes are just as bad as mine. Maybe worse because how often you _don’t_ wear your glasses.”

“Nah, I just wear them so you don’t feel bad, looking so much like a nerd all the time.” It’s a lie and not even one of Stan’s better ones, but the last thing he wants is Ford feeling bad about this. Stan likes punching people that mess with his twin, he’s good at it. Protecting Ford was a job Stan was happy to do for the rest of his life. Plus he can take a punch way better than Ford ever could. “Really, the sacrifices I make for you. But, hey, that’s part of being the Alpha Twin.”

Ford groans and drops his head. “ _Please_ not with this Alpha Twin nonsense again. You’re not even a half inch taller! And I’m technically older!” he argues, which Stan takes as a victory cause it means he’s distracted him from the talk about the glasses. “You’re the baby of the family, _Stanley_.”

“Just ‘cause I’m the cute one. In every other way, you’re the baby, _Stanford_.” He pushes himself off the swing and holds out a hand to pull Ford up. Once his brother is standing, he slings an arm over his shoulder and tries to pull him into a headlock with plans of a major noogie in his twin’s future. The plans get derailed though when Ford jerks an elbow into the mess of bruises that is Stan’s ribs. “Oof!”

“Sorry.” Ford says it without an ounce of remorse, the jerk. He gives Stan another punch to the shoulder, “C’mon. I’ll buy you a soda before we face Dad, baby brother. Maybe if we’re lucky, you’ll be ungrounded by the time we’re sixteen.”

Stan stuck his hands in his pockets as they start walking back towards their house, curling his fingers around the broken frames. He does hope he won’t be in too much trouble, outside of losing his glasses. He doesn’t want to miss the weekends working on the Stan o’ War. They were already behind on the schedule that Ford had put together on how to get the old girl sea worthy. Maybe he can volunteer to work more shifts at the shop to ease the anger.

He leans over to bump his shoulder against Ford’s while they walk. “You don’t have to face him with me, you know. You don’t want to get lectured about why you aren’t using your boxing lessons again, do you?” that was the one fight Stan couldn’t fight for him, no matter how many times he’d tried.

Ford snorts and bumps him right back. “Don’t be stupid, Lee. Wherever we go, we go together, remember?”


	3. Youth

Stan often thought about firing the kid, or wondering if hiring him on a whim in the first place had been a bad idea. Well, it had been Stan's idea so it was probably bad but there was levels to that. Like the difference between having to repaint his car after a bad joke bad or having to make a new fake identity and run from the cops bad. Levels.

It's not that the kid was a bad worker or anything. For as weird and excitable as he was, the kid did work hard. If he didn't know how to fix something, he more or less figured it out. Sometimes there were more fires than would've been preferred but Stan could trust it would be done. In the three years the boy had been working for him, Stan would swear the kid had more or less taught himself everything about being a handyman, from fixing the wiring in the Shack to rebuilding the golf cart at least twice. Stan was impressed. Maybe a smidge proud.

And that basically boiled down to the problem; Stan was getting attached to the kid. Hell, he was banned from airplanes for him, and wouldn't that be fun to explain to Ford when he got back? Stan likes having the kid around, even if he stares at Stan with stars in his eyes as if Stan was the greatest person he's ever known. Maybe that plays into it, maybe Stan likes the idea of a smart kid like that looking at him like that. But when Stan gets attached to something or someone, things never work out. It’s just a matter of time before the other shoe drops and Stan's left feeling worse for caring in the first place. Like every time he takes the time to go visit his great-niece and nephew. It's fun to play with the kids but then eventually he has to go home.

Stan expects the Soos shoe to drop when the kid goes to college, but there’s a sinking feeling when he sees the boy out the window one day in the early afternoon. Typically Soos shows up after school on weekdays, the bus dropping him off down the road so his grandmother doesn't have to make the trip here and back more than once a day until the kid gets a license. Stan normally lets him do his homework while manning the register, saving all the repairs until after the kid's school work was done. Purely to make sure the kid doesn't fail at school because of the work or anything that would make him have to quit sooner, of course.

But it's only a little past noon; way too early for Soos to be trudging up. Also, Soos doesn't trudge, he runs up all excited and jabbering about what happened at school or what new book on electrical engineering he'd found or the new cartoon show from Japan he'd been watching. As if Stan cares about the kid's day to day. Today there's a definite trudge to his steps though.

Still, Stan plasters a grin on his face as the door opens, pretending his focus is solely on the shelf of shoddily painted souvenir eyeballs he had been restocking. “Look who's here early. Trying to get some overtime? Cause there's some laws about how much you're allowed to work, kid.” Stan’s pretty sure at least; he never actually checked.

“Good one, dude. But I thought that when there's no cops around, everything is legal. Right, Mr. Pines?” his voice is quiet as he moves to put his backpack under the counter where it usually goes and there's that smidge of pride again.

Stan turns with a laugh, “I'll be damned, you are lear — " he freezes. Soos ducks his head and tugs his hat down but Stan still catches a look at the big, purplish bruise that surrounds his right eye. “That's one hell of a shiner, kid. Other guy looking worse?”

Soos laughs nervously and rubs at the back of his neck. “Nah, dude. Err, Mr. Pines.” He taps his fingers against the counter. “M-my school has a no fighting policy so we both got sent home.” that was odd. It wasn't like Soos to get into fights. “My grandma's still at work and I didn't wanna miss work. I can get started on fixing the tv once I'm done with my homework.”

That was ridiculous. Kid gets into a fight and still comes to work? Then again, how many times had Stan went to work on the Stan o’ War with black eyes or busted lips? Though the idea that the Shack meant as much to Soos as that stupid boat had meant to him was ludicrous. Stan scoffs and puts another bag of eyeballs on the shelf. “Fight? What could you possibly get in a fight over?” he's irritated when the thought that Soos might be getting bullied crosses his mind. He thinks about a little boy with hands hidden behind his back and eyes on his shoes. Only this time Stan can't exactly punch the bully. Well, not without having to talk with the cops and he's pretty sure even those incompetent buffoons wouldn't let him get away with that.

“He uh was saying some stuff about the Sh — y’know, it's not important. Just stupid high school stuff.” Stan looks back at the kid who now has his nose buried in a textbook, already starting on his homework. His knuckles are bruised, his right hand beginning to swell a bit. He's also holding his pencil weird, gripping it more with his fingers than with his thumb. Without realizing what he’s doing, Stan moves across the shop and grabs the kid’s wrist to hold his hand up. Soos goes all red in the face. “M-Mr. Pines? What's up, dawg?”

Stan grunts, frowning at the way Soos’ thumb is curling weird. “Make a fist. C'mon, show me a good fist.” his frown deepens when the kid obeys, curling his fingers over his thumb. Ah. That explained it. Kid doesn't know how to make a fist. “No, no. Thumb goes on the outside. Like this.” He lets go of Soos so he can hold up his own fist. “You put it inside and you're just asking for a broken thumb.”

And there goes that starry eyed look again that makes the back of his neck hot. But Soos mimics his first, thumb over his fingers. “Wow, Mr. Pines. That does feel better. Do you know how to fight?”

That makes Stan grin, real and genuine, and he thumbs his nose. “I mighta boxed a bit when I was a kid.” part of him wants to show Soos the picture of him and Ford in the boxing ring but that would open more questions than he was ready to answer. So instead Stan takes a loose boxing stance and makes a few jabs at the air. “Right jab, right, feint, and then bam! Left hook! They never see it coming.”

Soos’ eyes are wide and amazed, fists shoved under his chin. He smiles wide with his cheeks going red. “That's so cool, Mr. Pines! Bet you never lost a fight like I did, dude!”

Stan considers a moment, looking at the kid's black eye and bruised knuckles. Hm. “Well. It won't do if an employee of the Mystery Shack is losing fights. What would people say?” he crosses his arms with a nod. “Yep, it's settled. I'm going to teach you how to box. How about it kid?”

Maybe Stan feels a bit more than a smidge of pride at the enthusiastic way the kid agrees. He's a good kid. While Stan has him, might as well teach him a thing or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is something I've wanted to write since reading that Stan taught Soos how to box in Journal 3


	4. Safe

“I'm going to kill you.” Stan hisses through clenched teeth as he presses a towel--their last clean one, they really need to do laundry-- to the four long gashes on his brother’s forearm. “Tie you to the anchor and throw you overboard."

Ford has the audacity to not be threatened; the jackass even has the nerve to grin. Like he's not bleeding all over the deck and ruining their last clean towel. Like he didn't scare the crap out of Stan by being an idiot. “That would rather defeat the purpose of patching me up, wouldn't it?”

Stan scowls at him before moving to grab the first aid kit. It was supposed to go in a cabinet but never really made it off their small table, typically half buried under Ford's notes and maps.

It had been a mermaid and not the fun kind that look like pretty women. It had been small, just a bit bigger than one of the kids, and covered head to toe in silver scales. Stan had thought it had been kinda pretty when he'd hauled up the net it had gotten tangled in. It had looked like it was covered in shiny, silver coins and made a weird kinda rattling sound when it hit the deck. Then it had opened its mouth wider than it looked like should be able to show rows upon rows of needle like teeth. It had slashed a webbed hand with long claws at Stan.

Ford had shoved him back before the thing could make contact with Stan, getting the gashes to his arm in the process. The creature had hissed and hauled itself off the deck before Stan could retaliate and then Ford's bloody arm had demanded his attention.

His mind buzzes as he thinks about the possibility of poison while he cleans the gashes, taking a small amount of satisfaction with the way Ford flinches when he presses a cotton ball soaked in alcohol to the first wound. The cuts are clean, no discoloration around where the skin was torn. Blood is flowing normally, not too fast or too slow. Stan tries to let that calm his fraying nerves while he treats the gashes and wraps bandages around his twin’s arms.

“Am I gonna make it, Dr. Mystery?” Ford asks with a lazy smile on his face once his arm is fully bandaged. His sweater is ruined, the sleeve all ripped to shreds and the fabric stained dark with blood. But he looks like he could not care less about any of it, which just burns at Stan's nerves. This is the same man that yelled at Stan for spilling coffee on his stupid coat.

“Nope.” Stan practically growls as he tapes down the last of the wrapping. Isn't Ford supposed to be the smart one out of the two of them? “Afraid you've contracted a terminal case of being an ass. You only have ten minutes left to live.”

Ford laughs because he is an _ass_. “Well, it was only a matter of time. I've heard it runs in my family.” Normally making Ford laugh would've left Stan in high spirits all day, but right now it just irritates him. There's a bloody towel and a stack of pink cotton balls on the table and his ass of a brother is _laughing_ and making lame jokes.

“Can you take this seriously?” Stan snaps. “You got hurt, Stanford!” more scars to add to the multitude that cover his twin’s skin along with the tattoos that Stan will always make fun of. But Ford doesn't seem to care about getting hurt which makes Stan want to punch him square in the jaw.

Ford's expression shifts from teasing to slight annoyance, rolling his eyes. “I'm _fine_ , Stanley. It only got my arm.” he waives said appendage, “Besides, if I hadn't acted so quickly, it would've got you in the face. So this is fine.”

Stan stares hard at the white gauze and brown bandages, as if he can burn away the injury if he glares fierce enough. “...you don't gotta get hurt for me, Pointdexter. I can take it, y’know.”

There Ford goes, smiling again. “Course you can. You're my world saving, dinosaur punching, Alpha twin of a little brother. You're my hero, Stanley.” Ford grins and Stan can feel his face burning at the praise. He's still not used to that. “But that doesn't mean you _have_ to. If I can take it instead, I'm going to. Because we're a team, right?”

Stan hunches his shoulders and tries to fight the smile that threatens to surface at the sentiment. He huffs while he starts to clean up, trying to distract himself from the warring emotions in his gut by tossing the dirty cotton balls in the trash and putting the bloody towel in the sink to soak. It would probably stain but maybe they could get enough of the red out to help them forget what the stains were from.

They’re really doing it. They’re out at sea on a boat, fighting monsters, collecting treasure. Fewer babes than Stan would’ve imagined but he wasn’t really upset about that. He’s happy to be sailing the world with a brother that was apparently willing to take a slash to the arm for him and laugh off the pain. Stan doesn’t _like_ that Ford got hurt for him but he certainly doesn’t hate the idea that Ford was willing to. He’d much rather it be himself that got bloody and patched up but…if they were a team…

“You’re thinking too much over there, Lee. I can practically hear it from here.” Ford calls from his seat at the table. He’s picking at the edge of his bandages but has the decency to flinch back when Stan shoots him a glare. Oh, good, he _can_ still intimidate his brother. That’s good to know.

Stan can’t help a grin, sentiment winning over irritation in the moment. “Just thinking about how you only got five minutes left. You know, the terminal case of being an ass.” He looks at his watch and taps the waterproof glass three times. “Time’s ticking away, Sixer. Whatcha gonna do?”

Ford grins back, his shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter. Stan lets himself take pride in it this time. “What do you say we spend my last moments fishing? Might catch a cure before your case becomes fatal too.”

“I think that’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”


End file.
